‘Who?’
‘You know who. I’ve shared my secret.’ He turned to Dave. ‘What about you?’
Dave looked back at Gene. ‘You’ll understand what this means. The baby’s not mine.’
We were stunned into being therapists again and waited for Dave to speak.
‘We did the IVF thing, and I’ve got some problems. Some to do with the weight, some not. So in the end it was her egg and some other guy’s wriggler.’
I presumed wriggler was a synonym for sperm and not penis.
‘Now I’m wondering if me not being around, working late—all the stuff Sonia complains about—is because I don’t want to put time into some kid who doesn’t have my genes. I mean, subconsciously.’ He looked at Gene. ‘Like you said.’
‘Shit,’ said Gene. ‘There’s nothing wrong with working hard to earn a dollar.’
‘Funny,’ said Dave. ‘Until you told me about how the gene thing worked, I was afraid that Sonia would leave me. Now I realise I’ve got no more investment in our baby than I have in Dave the Calf. And if she figures that out, then why would she want me around?’
Gene laughed. ‘Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the complexity of the whole business. Trust me, Sonia won’t leave you because of that. The great thing about homo sapiens is that we’ve got a brain that can override our instincts. If we want it to.’
I had been so interested in the revelations from George, Gene and Dave—astonishing revelations—that I had not had time to think of one of my own. George saved me.
‘Don told us his bit the other night, when he said he was doing it hard with his marriage. Want to give us an update?’
‘I’m acquiring knowledge of the birth process. I have professional-level expertise on the subject of attachment of babies to same-sex and mixed-sex couples, and the consequent impact on oxytocin levels. And I’m seeing a therapist to review progress.’
‘How’s the relationship?’ said George.
‘With Rosie?’
‘That’d be the one.’
‘No change. I haven’t had a chance to apply the knowledge yet.’
We were all silent in the taxi on the way home. Two thoughts were occupying my mind: Gene’s lies had cost him his marriage. And telling the truth could no longer save it.
When the elevator stopped at my floor, George asked if I had a few minutes to check something upstairs.
‘It’s extremely late,’ I said, although I suspected I would have trouble sleeping. I had not drunk sufficient alcohol to counteract the effects of adrenaline from the excitement of Dave the Calf and, despite reinstating my original bedtime schedule, I had slept erratically since the removal of the mattress.
‘It’ll only take a few minutes,’ he said.
‘The alcohol will affect my judgement. Better to check in the morning.’
‘All right,’ said George. ‘Guess I’ll just do some drum practice to wind down.’
Gene was holding the elevator door open. ‘George wants to talk to you “one on one”,’ he said. ‘That’s fine. Have a drink for me.’
I had no choice but to follow George to his apartment. He poured two large glasses of Balvenie twenty-one-year-old Scotch.
‘Here’s to you,’ he said. ‘I said I didn’t want to be part of a men’s group, but you’ve kept it going. None of us would bother if it wasn’t for you calling up and making us put it in our schedules every week.’
‘You’re suggesting we abandon the group? That I’m the only one benefiting?’
‘On the contrary. I’m just saying that these things need a champion or they drift apart. If it wasn’t for Mr Jimmy, the Dead Kings would’ve been finished thirty years ago. And we’d all be the worse for it.’
I drank my Scotch. I assumed George had delivered his message, but he refilled our glasses. I suspected the second glass would solve the sleeping problem—possibly the standing problem.
‘You know I said I didn’t have any secrets?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘I lied. My son, the one whose birth I didn’t get to. He’s a drug addict. That’s no secret. This is the secret. It was my fault. I caused it. He never even drank, didn’t smoke. He was a jazz drummer. A bloody good drummer.’
‘You consider that some failure in your parenting caused him to take addictive drugs?’
‘It wasn’t his genes, I can tell you that.’ George took a long time to finish his glass of Scotch. I followed the therapist rule and stayed silent. George filled his glass again. ‘I put him onto it. I goaded him into doing it. Told him he was afraid to try things, afraid to grab hold of life. Gene’ll tell you why I did it.’
‘I thought this was a secret. Do you want me to tell Gene?’
‘No. But if you did, Gene would tell you I wanted to bring him down to my level. Unconsciously, I suppose. But not that unconsciously.’
George was now unambiguously distressed. I hoped I would not be required to put my arm—or arms—around him.
‘So there you go,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one who knows, besides me and him. He’s never said a word against me.’
‘Do you require help to solve the problem?’
‘If I did, you’d be the first person I’d ask. Too late for that. I just wanted to tell someone who would see it straight, see it for what it is. If I’m going to be judged, I want to be judged by someone I respect.’ He raised his glass as if in a toast, then consumed its contents. I followed his example.
‘Ta for that,’ he said. ‘I owe you one. If you find a solution for drug addiction, let me know on the way to collecting your Nobel Prize. If I had to put my money on anyone to do it, you’d be my man.’
Our apartment was dark when I returned from George’s. I had unpacked my wet clothes from the garbage bag, brushed my teeth and checked my schedule for the following day when a thought formed. I was compelled to act on it.
Gene was asleep and not happy to be woken.
‘We need to call Carl,’ I said.
‘What? What’s happened? Has something happened to Carl?’
‘Something might. He may begin taking illicit drugs. Due to his mental state.’
Gene had provided an argument, albeit an unconvincing one, for not telling Claudia the truth. But it was obvious that the lie was causing Carl to hate Gene. Hate causes distress, potentially leading to mental and physical health problems. Adolescents are highly vulnerable. It was too late to save George’s son, but we were in a position to save Carl.
‘His mental state is based on an incorrect assumption about your behaviour. You need to correct it.’
‘Save it for the morning.’
‘It’s 2.14 a.m. 5.14 p.m. in Melbourne. Perfect time to call.’
‘I’m not dressed.’
This was true. Gene had been sleeping in his underwear, an unhealthy choice. I began to explain about the risk of tinea cruris but he interrupted.
‘Let’s get it done then. Don’t turn the video on.’
Calculon was online. I connected and she summoned Carl. I remained in text mode.
Greetings Carl. Gene (your father) wants to speak to you.
No thanks. Sorry Don, I know you’re only trying to help.
He has a confession.
I don’t want to hear any more about the stuff he’s done. Goodnight.